


One Passion, That Of The Light

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: The Dreyfus Affair - Peter Lefcourt
Genre: Baseball, Character of Colour, Established Relationship, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: The title is inspired by the last line of theJ’Accuse, the original letter by Emile Zola:I have only one passion, that of the light, in the name of humanity which has suffered so much and is entitled to happiness. My ignited protest is nothing more than the cry of my heart. So may one dare bring me to criminal court, and may the investigation take place in broad daylight.Happy Yuletide, mayhap! Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt, which echoed exactly what I’ve long wanted after readingThe Dreyfus Affair. I hope that you enjoy this story, and that you have a wonderful holiday.





	One Passion, That Of The Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayhap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayhap/gifts).



> The title is inspired by the last line of the **J’Accuse** , the original letter by Emile Zola: 
> 
>  
> 
> _I have only one passion, that of the light, in the name of humanity which has suffered so much and is entitled to happiness. My ignited protest is nothing more than the cry of my heart. So may one dare bring me to criminal court, and may the investigation take place in broad daylight._
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Yuletide, mayhap! Thank you so much for the wonderful prompt, which echoed exactly what I’ve long wanted after reading **The Dreyfus Affair**. I hope that you enjoy this story, and that you have a wonderful holiday.

After the game is won, after the toasts are made and the champagne drunk, after the victory parade winds its way down Burbank from Lindley to just short of the San Fernando Freeway, after the rings have been dutifully worn and then put away until the next public appearance calls for them, after the stitches are out… After all that, there isn’t actually much even for superstars to do following the Fall Classic. 

D.J. Pickett, one half of the renowned infield team who had brought first infamy and then triumph to the Los Angeles Vikings, all in a few short months, woke up one morning in November and realized that that he had nothing to do that day. Better yet, Randy had nothing scheduled, either. 

D.J. got up and took Calvin out, then gave the dog his breakfast in the kitchen. When he got back to his bedroom, he dug his leather-bound Berluti personal organizer out of his bedside table. Never hurt to double-check these things.

Randy had woken up while D.J. had been with Calvin. He’d gotten up at some point and brushed his teeth, which D.J. appreciated. Then he’d gotten back in bed, which D.J. appreciated even more. The duvet was pushed down so that it pooled low around Randy’s hips, and he’d propped up some pillows behind him so that he was mostly sitting up. 

D.J. arranged himself so that he was sprawled across the bed, with his head resting comfortably on Randy’s flat lower belly, while he flipped through the Berluti's silky pages. “You ready for this?”

Randy gently squeezed one of D.J.’s pecs, and D.J. flexed a little for him. Randy grinned and bent down and kissed him. “You’re so organized, baby. I’ve told you how much I appreciate that, right?” 

Randy was as good at the business side of their jobs as he was at the ballpark. But after they’d won the series, it hadn’t taken him much time at all to realize that D.J. got off on being organized, and he’d pretty much stepped back and let him have the reins with their post-series commitments. 

D.J. sometimes marvelled at how easily they’d fit together. Even during the worst of it, when Randy was first figuring things out, then after Dallas, they’d been a great team, knowing what the other needed, when to step forward and when to hand off to the other guy, all the while taking care of each other. Smiling up at his lover, he said, “Yeah. You’ve told me.”

“Get through this fast enough, and I’ll have time to show you before we have to be - well, wherever we have to be.” Taking one of D.J.’s brown nipples between his index finger and his thumb, he pinched gently. “Hit me.”

D.J. took a deep breath and resisted the urge to ask Randy to pinch him harder. “So. The next guest coaching session at schools is in April, nothing for that until then. You’re not filming any more commercials until January, unless Barry manages to get Reebok to pony up a couple million to have both of us as the spokesmen for the next campaign, and, other than a few meetings, that won’t take up much time until they start shooting in March.

No daytime talk shows booked for the next four months, no late-night shows booked until New Year’s Eve, nothing with ESPN until spring training when we do that special, and nothing with any of the network sports shows until then either. No print interviews until the _Vanity Fair_ thing with Leibowitz in a couple of weeks.”

“What about that thing with the president and, uh, the ACLU guy?” Randy took his hand off D.J. just long enough to lick his fingertips, and then went back to the nipple he’d been caressing, tenderly rolling it between them. 

Jesus. D.J. let himself close his eyes for a second, taking a minute to revel in the sensation. When he spoke again, he made sure that his voice was still even. “Gabe Friedman. And, by 'that thing,' you mean nine holes of golf at the Riviera Club with the leader of the free world?”

Randy wet his fingers again and dragged them over to D.J’s other nipple, tracing softly with his index finger, so lightly that D.J. had to stop himself from arching up into the touch. “Uh-huh. That’s the one.”

“Postponed for a couple of weeks. Apparently we’re good for a boost in the polls, so, they’ve moved it closer to the midterm elections. It’s probably going to be a shitshow.” 

“We’re getting good at those.” Randy smiled down at D.J. “I bet golfing with the Secret Service following us around will be a kick. You think we can get them to shoot skeet when we tee off?” Fuck if Randy wasn’t just talking so he could spend even more time dragging his thumb over D.J.’s nipple, slow circles that were driving D.J. crazy.

“Maybe, if we promise the president that we won’t hold hands in the photo op. Or if we promise his press secretary that we will - I think she went to Berkeley,” said D.J, holding tightly to his organizer, which he’d closed so that none of the pages would get bent. “But that’s not my point.”

“What’s your point?” Randy asked, as he finally pinched the nipple he’d been teasing. 

D.J. drew in a sharp breath, the pinch shooting sensation down from his nipple to his cock. He reached up and took Randy’s hand and kissed it. Still holding on to it, he sat up and carefully put the Berluti on the bedside table. Then he rolled over quickly, straddling Randy’s hips with the same grace he showed throwing the ball home for a triple-play. 

“Well. Hi there.” Randy pulled him closer and kissed him.

It was a good kiss, and D.J. let it go on for a minute before he pulled back, just enough to brush his lips across Randy’s cheek. “You gonna let me finish telling you what we have to do today?”

Randy sighed. “I guess it can’t wait, huh?”

D.J. kissed him again, running his tongue over Randy’s lower lip. “We’ve already started.” 

Randy pulled back so that he could see D.J.’s face, grinning. “No interviews, no appearances…”

“Not even a lunch date,” D.J. confirmed. “Nothing for the next four days, and not much for the week after that, except taking the twins for the day.” 

“God,” Randy wrapped his arms around D.J. “It’ll be just like Maine.”

“Except without the catfish,” said D.J. “And the springs in my mattress are so much better than in the one in that cabin, as charming as the rest of it was.”

“Yeah?” said Randy, biting down D.J.’s neck. “You going to show me how good this one bounces, baby?”

D.J. pushed their hips together so that there wasn’t any place they weren’t touching, just as they both liked it. “Gonna show you that, and so much more.”

As he rolled them over, he thought about everything he’d learned about keeping himself busy once baseball was done for the year. They might not have much to do for the next little while, but they’d still be busy 'round the clock.


End file.
